


Buttsex: The Musical

by hetaliareference (arrowiskawaii)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Humor, M/M, OR IS IT??, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 19:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11088486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrowiskawaii/pseuds/hetaliareference
Summary: America comes up with a cliche game to fill the time. Who will last in an hour of extreme sexual awkwardness! Spoiler: There is really awful sex at the end.





	Buttsex: The Musical

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally written in 2009 for the Hetalia kink meme over on LJ, in response to someone asking for a parody of bad Hetalia fic. I've cleaned it up a bit, but also tried not to edit it too much because I think this is old enough by now to be looked at as a time capsule for the fandom. (For example, I left in some off-color jokes I wouldn't have made currently, and the Russia/Lithuania pairing has tanked so much in popularity I'm sure some of you will be confused at its inclusion.) Anyway, please enjoy!

"GUYS," America says, bursting into the meeting room with all the vigor of a cacophonous wildebeest, "I have a great idea!"

"You bloody git," says England immediately. "You always have bloody stupid ideas, why is this one going to be any bloody different?"

The other nations in the room nodded, which in this case included Italy, Germany, Spain, Romano, Sweden, Finland, Russia and Lithuania. There was France too, but he would probably end up being in a threesome anyway since there wasn't an even number of people. There were also America and England whom were already mentioned, in case you forgot.

"Hey guys I just—well howdy!" says Prussia, moving into the room behind America and conveniently bringing the total of nations in this parody up to twelve. "Are we having another plot device meeting or something? Anyway, I was just out seizing people's VITAL REGIONS with my FIVE METERS if you know what I mean. I hope you all still find that as funny as I do."

"What est your idée, mon ami?" France asks, for some reason switching back and forth between languages with every other word. The real reason was because the author took five years of French in school and wanted to use it for something, not that this would seem awkward or alienate a large part of the audience or anything.

"Well," says America, "since we never get anything done at these meetings anyway, I thought we'd play a game!"

"A game?" asks Italy, excitedly.

"Excuse me, my desperate plea for attention is being ignored," says Prussia. "I said I was just out seizing—"

"Okay, before I say what the game is, I'm going to draw names out of a hat so we can pick partners," America says.

"Why can't we all just pair up with someone with whom we have unresolved sexual tension?" Russia suggests. "That would be more convenient."

"Good thinking Russia," says America. "Okay, instead, everyone just pair up with someone you're sexually awkward with! England, you come stand over here with me."

"We are _not_ bloody fucking sexually awkward, hell!" England snaps, but eagerly gets up from his chair and runs over. Everyone else moves into familiar pairings, except for France and Prussia, but there was historical basis for it so it wasn't as cracktastic and TTLY RANDOM as it could have been.

"Everyone paired up? Okay! Now here's the game—everyone go with their partner into another room, alone! For an hour!"

There is a murmur of shock throughout the meeting room: who would have expected such a twist? Several nations begin to blush in a moe fashion.

"Su-san!" cries a visibly pregnant Finland. "Tell America that this is a terrible idea!"

"Ng," Sweden grunts.

"Well now that that's settled," says America, rubbing his hands together, "let the game begin! Let's see who can last the longest!"

"Until what?" Lithuania asks, cautiously, but no one pays attention. The nations file out of the room, all of them secretly dreading the sexually awkward hour they were about to endure.

* * *

"I don't think this was a terribly good idea," says Lithuania nervously, once Russia closes the door to the non-descript setting they're in. Russia just clucks his tongue as he removes his scarf (which is a pale yellow, or maybe egg shell colored).

"Why is it a not terribly good idea?"

"Well, shouldn't we at least _try_ to get something done at the meeting? I mean, I know this is a gag series, but—"

"Lithuania, why are you being so cold?"

Minus his scarf, Russia is wearing a long brown military style coat with a few buttons on it and also some badges. He also has brown trousers on and boots that are also brown. His hair is a pale blond and his icy blue eyes are like limpid tears. He looks nothing like Amy Lee.

"I'm sorry," Lithuania sighs. "I just thought that an hour of sexual awkwardness would be—well. Awkward, I guess. And I mean, I'm terrified of you, so I doubt this will be in any way comfortable."

"But we do have sexual tension we could resolve, do we not?" says Russia. "Everyone ships enemies together. You and me. France and England. Harry and Draco."

"I suppose," concedes Lithuania.

"Then how about I sit on this here—and you sit over there—and we stare at each other, you know, until one of us cracks and makes some sort of confession of love? I do believe that's how these sorts of things work."

"I can't tell what I'm supposed to be sitting on," Lithuania says, groping around. He nearly trips over a generic part of the scenery. "It's as if the author hasn't given us any sense of where we're supposed to be right now."

"You could sit on my lap," Russia suggests.

"But that would mean we'll end up having sex that much faster," Lithuania explains. "Ah! Here."

Lithuania sits. On something.

"Alright," he says. "How much longer?"

"Fifty seven minutes."

"Ah," says Lithuania. "Fifty seven minutes it is."

They sit for a moment in silence.

"Do you want to just get it over with?" Russia asks.

" _Yes_ , bored as hell already," says Lithuania, and starts on his belt.

* * *

Germany and Veneziano settle comfortably into a different but still non-descript location and Germany sighs.

"I don't know why we have to do this," he says. "We're _always_ sexually awkward."

"We're practically a canon couple anyway~" Feliciano agrees.

"I mean, why can't I just hurry up and realize I'm the Holy Roman Empire?" Germany says. "It's _painfully_ obvious."

"I know~" says the happy Italian, sadly.

They fall into an odd silence. Then Germany sighs again.

"Italy, this has been bothering me. How is it that you're supposedly a virgin and yet you're always hitting on girls?"

"And how are you supposedly a virgin when you watch all those kinky porn videos~?" asks the smaller country, playfully.

Germany ponders this for a second and shrugs his shoulders. They go silent again.

"Italy?"

"Yes~?" says the cheerful Mediterranean nation.

"Please stop talking in tildes."

"Oh, sorry," says the joyful brown-haired Italian (the one with the copper hair, not the auburn). "Yes?"

"Why are you—why are you being referred to by something new every time your name comes up?"

"I don't—I don't know," says the joyful Italian nation, looking confused. "All day today I've only been called Italy once and it's really—AHHH! GERMANY!"

Germany jumps out of his seat and promptly whips his gun from its holster. He realizes, with sudden horror, that they've become surrounded by dictionaries, thesauruses, English textbooks, word of the day calendars, glossaries, vocabulary lists, lexicons, writer's handbooks and encyclopaedias. It is simultaneously horrifying, terrifying, frightening, alarming, and—

"NO! We're done for!" Italy cries, interrupting the author's excessive narration.

"Italy," Germany says, steadying his arm and aiming straight for an unabridged dictionary, "I better get laid for saving your life for once."

* * *

"Y' d'n't w'nt t' h'v' s'x?"

"No, I don't!" Finland repeats. He crosses his arms huffily. "All you've been saying this whole time is Finland do you want sex this, Finland do you want sex that, and I'm tired of it! It isn't awkward sexual tension if you're incredibly blatant about it!"

"B't F'nl'nd—"

"I'm nine months along!" Finland protests. "Su-san, do you even know how stressful this is? No one even knows how the baby's even supposed to come out! It's not anatomically possible!"

"B't F'nl'nd—"

"How did I even get pregnant, is what I want to know! How do mpreg fics even manage to take themselves seriously, the premise is ridiculous!"

"B't F'nl'nd—"

"Oh, it kicked," Finland coos, and rubs his stomach. "I'm sorry, Su-san, what did you want to say?"

"W's g'ng t' s'y th't 't's b'n n'n' m'nths s'nc' w' l'st h'd s'x," Sweden sighs.

"I _know_ it's been nine months since we last had sex!" Finland wails. "Do you think I've _enjoyed_ it? And I know it's not your fault," adds Finland, tone abruptly lightening before turning hysterical again, "it's just—oh, I just—I've put on all the weight and I'm so tired—I just feel so _unattractive_ right now!"

"C'ld n'v'r th'nk y' 'n'ttr'ct'v'," Sweden assures him.

"That's sweet of you, but..." Finland puts his face in his hands. "Su-san, I don't even know where the baby _is_! I don't have a uterus!"

"'M s'r' 't's w'dg'd 'n th'r' s'm'wh'r'," says Sweden, dryly.

" _Wedged in there somewhere_?" Finland yells. "Su-san, this is important! What if you put your—your—in my—Su-san, what if you accidentally _rape the baby_?"

Sweden goes silent for a moment, dumbfounded.

"Bl'w j'b?" he suggests.

"Maybe," says Finland, prudishly. "But Su-san, will you give me a massage before we start? My back's killing me."

Sweden nods for a second, but then just as he gets up, he pauses a second time.

"'h my G'd," says Sweden, with horror. "'M p'ssy-wh'pp'd."

* * *

"God dammit!" says Romano. "Fuck this shit! I'm tired of waiting about for this bullshit to be over!"

"But Lovi," says Spain, sighing dramatically. "Isn't this romantic? You and me. Alone. In a non-descript setting."

Romano glares at him.

"Bastard. Did you just fucking call me 'Lovi'?"

"What? It's what I do in all the other fanfics."

"Who started that shit anyway? Whatever," Romano sighs. "It's been thirty minutes, are we gonna fuck or what, you bastard?"

"I thought you'd never ask," moans Spain, seductively. He throws himself onto a bed and goes into throes of passion and speaks sexily in Spanish. But I can't speak Spanish so I'm cutting that bit out.

"Yes, take me right here!" he concludes.

"Yeah okay," says Romano. "But wouldn't you rather be sleeping with—MY BROTHER? _FUCK OFF, YOU BASTARD! I HATE YOU!_ "

Romano bursts into tears and headbutts Spain or something tsundere like that so Spain sits up again, clutching at his heart as though it's been ripped in two. _Lovi!_ he thinks. _Why are you so precious?_

"Never, Lovi," he says, amorously. He hurries to Romano's side and pinches his tomato cheeks which are red like sun-ripened tomatoes are red. "Never. How could I ever love anyone but you? You, who regularly tells me you hate me, curses at me, and even pissed on the side of my house in that one comic? I couldn't stand for it, Romano. And I would _never_ trade you for your far more agreeable brother."

"Really?" Romano sobs.

"Really."

Spain sweeps Romano off his feet in the most romantic way ever and dumps him on the bed. "I could never love anyone as much as I love you."

"I feel so much better now, you bastard," says Romano, sniffing. Then he grabs Spain by the lapels and pulls him down with him. "Now, who tops?"

* * *

"Maintenant, who tops, mon cher?"

"I don't know," Prussia says, frowning. "I can't really imagine either of us bottoming. We both do a lot of bad touching."

"C'est vrai." France is holding a rose with his teeth, for some reason.

"Okay, you're going to have to stop with the French. That is practically twice as annoying as Sweden earlier."

"It's for _authenticity_ ," France complains. "And nothing says authenticity like throwing in random French words. But fine—who tops?"

"Let me think," says Prussia, and ponders while stroking his chin. "Well, obviously the person with the bigger dick tops. And since I've got FIVE METERS—"

"Ha, I'll be the one topping, if we're going by size," says France, and he drops his pants to prove it.

"Holy _fuck_ ," says Prussia. How did he keep that thing from getting knots in it? "Never mind then. What about—oh right, the height rule! Which one of us is taller?"

Unfortunately, once they've stood, France and Prussia both discover that they are exactly the same height.

"Well fuck," says Prussia. "A game of rock-paper-scissors?"

France agrees and on the first go they both choose rock. It's the same outcome the second time. And the third.

"Fuck!"

"Why don't we decide by whoever's won the most wars?"

"Fuck you, you don't even exist anymore."

"Hey author," Prussia complains, unceremoniously breaking the fourth wall, "we aren't getting anywhere with this. You pick a number and have us guess what it is."

 **A/N:** Okay, fine. Pick a number one through one hundred.

"Sixty-nine," says Prussia.

"You _took_ mine!"

"Fuck off! Just pick another!"

"Fine. _96_."

 **A/N:** Prussia wins, it was 69.

"Bend over," Prussia cackles.

"God dammit."

* * *

Meanwhile it starts to rain outside, which just so happens to be where our final pair are standing (America and England, in case you forgot) because there aren't any more rooms open for being sexually awkward in. American sighs and hurries to go back in because they've made no progress and the hour is almost up anyway.

"England!" America calls. "Why are you just standing out there? Hurry up!"

"Oh, don't bloody mind me," England sighs. He looks up into the dark clouds, clouds that were dark like his emotions were dark. It was as though they were a metaphor for his inner angst. The rain rained down his face like tears. Or like rain. "Just standing out in the bloody rain. Getting myself bloody wet because of you."

"That's what she said," says America. "Oh SNAP!"

"America you bloody tosser!" England cries, and he sprints away into the rain, projectile tears falling away from his face like even more rain.

"Aw shit," says America. And he'd been doing so well to, and hadn't yet given in to his burning passion at all. So much for that.

America slowmo runs after England, pretending to frantically search for his woeful lover even though he's obviously still in plain sight. America grasps at his England's arm after he's caught up with him, then twirls him around like they're doing some sort of interpretive dance. Then America cups England's face and plants upon his charming, delicate, rosy lips a most succulent, delicious, fantastic, thunderous, velvety, aromatic, sweltering, aquamarine, equine and equatorial kiss. England swoons.

"Oh America," England sighs.

"My darling, how could I have ever hurt you?" America asks, kissing up England's arm.

"I don't know, how?"

"It was a rhetorical question," America answers, and plants a sloppy kiss on the back of England's hand. It has become so unimportant for it to be raining for this scene that it instantly stops, and rainbows, rabbits, fluttering birds and fanciful unicorns and peep out from the burrows to view the lovers, whose desire for one another could never be vanquished, thwarted, conquered, annexed, or colonized (ha, get it? Imperialism jokes).

"America," England says, throatily, "make love to me."

"No, my dearest," says America. He drops to his knees and clasps England's hands, just as a fierce wildebeest would. "I mustn't."

"What the _fuck_?" England demands. "Why the bloody fuck not? The author's not exactly written the bloody promised bad sex scene yet!'"

"Exactly," America tells him, forlornly. "But think about it, England. Think about how this would be an opportunity for the author to make a tiny difference in the world. Think about how the sex scene that she is about to write could do even a little to counterbalance the ridiculously disproportionate number of fics out there with us fucking instead of other, more interesting pairings!"

"I don't get it," says England. "You're saying she's going to bloody switch to another pairing for the bloody _novelty_?"

"Yes! It's because we're the most popular pairing in the English speaking fandom," America tries to explain. "Day after day, week after week, there is a constant flood of porn fics about us. Do you remember the last 4th of July? It was non-stop America fangirl orgasm that could be heard the world over! If the author wrote the oncoming sex scene with us as the pairing she'd just be giving in to what the fandom wants! But nay!" America stands, slamming his hand to his chest. "Give someone else a chance! Even if we must suffer, we should stand aside, and let a less popular pairing reign for even a brief moment!"

"What the fuck, hetaliareference?" England says. "Are you really that bloody butthurt about us?"

"Of course she is!" America continues, with fiery passion, as was the American way. "The only fic with me in it she's ever enjoyed was that one with me and Stephen Colbert! So don't you see? She wants to use this opportunity to have her revenge!"

"Well fuck," England says. "And I had a bloody boner too. Well, who's going to have the bloody honour then?"

"Probably someone who no one would expect," says America, pondering this very good question. "Something involving characters who never get any action at all."

"Not France then," England says, reasonably.

"It probably won't be any of the other popular pairings either," America says. "The couple might not have even been in this fic yet!"

"Gasp," says England. "Then—who?"

"Only time will tell," America says, shaking his head. "Once we get to the next section, then we will know."

* * *

"Oh fuck it's still us," says America, panicking.

"All that for bloody nothing," says England, fumbling with his jeans. "What a bloody dick move. Oh well, time for a less metaphorical dick!"

"Ram your weeping cock up my ass," America entices him. "I don't even know what a weeping cock is other than perhaps a very sad one BUT I WANT IT."

"I didn't bring any lube," England informs him. "But that's okay because my cock of fury is self-lubricating."

"Thank god for virgin thirteen year old females writing gay porn," America says, dropping his boxers. He flops to the ground, unconcerned with their location of the sake of the story. "What the fuck are you getting out a condom for? Skip the foreplay shit too, let's go."

"I'm wondering when the bloody author's going to realize I don't usually top," says England to himself. "Oh, I guess she has now. What, and she's not going back to bloody edit it either?"

"Hurry up, England!" America growls, like a wildebeest in heat. "My loins are aflame, here!"

"Christ, don't bloody rush me," England says. He takes his enormous, veiny, twitching, off-purple, erect erection in hand and hones in on America's chocolate starfish, suddenly jamming it in like one might jam his penis into a jar of peanut butter and henceforth beginning the fuckfest.

"Ow," says America, performatively, and then he goes into blushing, crying uke mode. "Oh England, stop, yamete!! It feels too good! I'm embarrassed!"

"But your cute butt is too cute," England grunts, slamming into America's forbidden entrance like a battering ram. "I can't possibly hold myself back."

"Have your way with me then! My love for you can overcome the overwhelming pain and tearing!"

And so England and America perform a lustful horizontal tango, with England riding America like a magical pony ride to oblivion and ecstasy, hitting America's prostate so hard with every last plunging thrust that it almost shatters.

"Ohmygodohmygoddddd," moans America.

"Bloody umpf, bloody umpf, bloody umpf," England answers.

And then suddenly, without any build up at all really, England jizzes like a fiery orgasm train from hell, dispensing his creamy baby batter from his mayonnaise cannon into America's fudge factory and feeling himself leaving his current plane of reality because the bumfucking was just that crazy awesome. America blows his load soon after, shooting fireworks of man-yogurt into the air in a glorious display. England collapses on top of America, worn out from the spectacular session of buttsex they'd just engaged in.

"I won't be able to take a shit until I'm well into my thirties," America says, dreamily. "Oh sweetheart, that was the best sex I've ever had."

"I'm glad this won't have any bloody real life repercussions," England tells him, and they snuggle on the ground, still not particularly concerned that they're lying on soggy grass. "Hey, did you bloody plan this bloody game this way?"

"Of course," says America, and smirks. "Oh, and by the way, everyone reading this just lost the game."

And they lived happily ever after, anal bleeding aside. The End.


End file.
